


To Be Kept Grounded

by muguetmuse



Category: Gintama
Genre: Airports, Business Trip, F/M, Humor, Modern AU, Romance, rated for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muguetmuse/pseuds/muguetmuse
Summary: "I'm telling ya, I'm your typical hippie, John Lennon revolutionary idealist and pacifist in another life,” he playfully wiggles his sunglasses and brows before relaxing his upturned cheeks.  “Accept the favor, I insist, Mutsu. We just went through a marathon after all.”At first, she jolts at the mention of her name–had she even introduced herself properly to him?–when he gesticulates to the ticket in her hand."I didn't know you could be so serious….?”“Sakamoto Tatsuma,” he answers her.OrBusiness Trips With Airport Troubles Lead You To The People You Need The Most





	1. airport coffee and sweatshirts

**Author's Note:**

> I come to remedy the lack of sakamutsu content both in canon and in the fandom. so yay! 
> 
> disclaimer that I don't know squat about business or airports so there's Google searches and creative freedom that birthed this.  
> Mutsu's last name=Kaien because she named the robot ship Kaien (Renho arc? check the wiki LOL) in canon, so. 'Yato' got a bit dry for me to work with. 
> 
> That being said, I had so much fun writing this?? and I hope you guys love it as much as I did!

Mutsu opens her email, bites back the rise in her throat, and exhales a shaky breath despite the frustration that presses against her forebrain. Everything around her is quiet, save for the buzz of the refrigerator and occasional pipe rattle in the bathroom. Compared to her Friday afternoon, this is the closest thing to peace.

That is until a Chidori Group email notification flashes across the bright screen.

From no other than her boss.

She stifles another groan. Before her boss cheated his way to promotion,

The screen flickers to life when she resuscitates it with the sweep of her mouse; Mutsu’s eyes strain reading her boss’ _orders_ in the dark.

> _Fr: Head of Marketing - Hiroto Onohara < _ [ _h. onohara@ chidorigroup . jp_ ](mailto:h.onohara@chidorigroup.jp) _ > _
> 
> _To: Mutsu Kaien_
> 
> _Your family history clearly precedes you. It’s non-negotiable; you’ll do Watanabe’s job Tuesday. Order your ticket and we’ll reimburse accordingly._

 Fingers lingering on the keyboard, Mutsu debates outright quitting a job she worked so hard for, to keep her head finally out and away from debt-infested water, and cursing her new boss to hell. He might have risen to a position higher than her despite a long time, one-sided rival vendetta he held her to, but she never forgets every stab to her career being overlooked wounded her. Now, after their altercation at the office and the loss of a major client, Onohara pointed a skinny finger in her direction (what she would give to put her “self-defense” classes to the test on his face), and it was enough to send her on the precipice of losing her job.

Apparently, voicing an opinion nowadays is controversial. Damn him. It’s not _entirely_ her fault he chose to continue their battle on strategizing their statements to public relations despite his appointment with their potential partners who flew in from Nagoya,

She could read between the lines to know there’s her career at stake. It is a cost she’s lived with since her university years, her father’s empirical rise-and-fall in business, and his debt left in her bank account when he went missing. Most days she convinces herself that she moved on to live her own life. On the days she’s rendered weakest, Mutsu is flogged to a static, three-year position because of it.

Oh well. Success comes easy to no one and playing the game is the closest she'll ever get to it. If she has to fly out to slave away to keep her job, she’ll do it.

She breathes in and out. Swallowing hard, Mutsu’s fingertips press against the keys.

* * *

 

 That morning, the vestiges of a churning storm at her destination cause the airline to send a blipping notification on her phone.

Mutsu rolls on her side, soaking in the information as the bed dips with the sudden weight shift. Her flight is delayed for an understandable amount of hours.

But she stands up anyway, brushes the overnight knots in her hair, picking up a towel on her journey to the bathroom.

Rather be there early than missing her flight and jeopardizing everything.

Mutsu packs light. As if it’s weightless, she lifts her carry-on onto the security check belt, way before the man in front of her grunts with his own effort, his hands turning white gripping his dark suitcase.

“Here,” she cuts next him, heaving the underside of his luggage, guiding it down the line. He dazzles the drudgery of the morning with a grin before waltzing through the security arches.

...except the metal detectors alarmingly beep twice on the same man donning a red windbreaker in front of her. The first time catches the metal on his department store watch–an accessory entirely too formal for a case of bedhead and athletic clothes–and the second alarm rings because he forgot to remove his loose change from his pocket.

He guffaws gratingly despite the increasing pairs of glares on him. The looks he gets mean nothing, she can tell this because he nudges her and she nearly jumps at the gesture, but without looking at her directly, he manages another unusual grin at her, addressing a complete and utter stranger. “Can ya believe I forgot about the coins?”

Mutsu nods for courtesy’s sake and raises the handle on her luggage, a reserved part of her mind feeling a gravitating familiarity with him. Was it his sense of humor in even the most inappropriate of situations that is jarring to her? Her thoughts wrestle and entertain the gripping familiarity to endless laughter–perhaps it underscores the times before her father left her in charge of his debts when the parties were light and friendly.

Whatever the case, she holds no reservations speaking her mind about the present moment. “You held up the line with your antics. Don't worry, I didn't mind,” she adds quickly to ease the guilt pulling at the corners of his eyes. It dissipates as fast as it appeared, an emotional exchange of sorts.

“I see. Well, don't let me hold you up! We’ve both got flights to catch,” he rolls his bag ahead of her, waving a zealous arm in goodbye, and consults the signs with an intensity Mutsu knows better than to interrupt.

She walks past him. It's a hasty parting, but it's the way life goes. With an immense time to kill--a full three hours now--she goes through crappy souvenir shops with sweatshirts emblazoned with pilot terminology and tourist destinations. The kanji peels right off the thick cotton like a separate entity that never belonged and Mutsu subtly hides it behind the other hoodies before ducking out the plastic trinkets store.

At least she cut the time to two hours and fifty minutes.

* * *

 

"Excuse me, you're blocking the ladies' bathroom," she says to a head of curly hair.

"Oh! You! Ahaha!" And for a minute she thinks he's going to throttle her before making off with her passport because it's ridiculous for the same man being pat down at security ending up in front of the ladies’ restroom. Disheveled hair and too friendly hands at her shoulders alert her to slap him away--he’s too forward for a stranger, she’ll say it again, _peering at the women’s restroom sign--_ when he widens his eyes, less wild but urgent all the same. "Help me get ta’ my flight in time!"

She chalks it up to instinct from those times when her father would bring her on some of his business trips, always running late by a few minutes because he took too long to shower or because he forgot his passport in his drawer. He was a busy man, small details like passports or birthdays escaping him, but those younger days when they’d break into a mad dash towards their terminal are far too heart-pounding to forget.

So Mutsu drags him by the wrist away from the women’s restroom, the hand that grips his passport and ticket tightly. Surprisingly, her coffee remains upright and secure as it pushes against between her palm and his wrist.

“Alright,” she says, releasing him and wheeling her luggage as brisk as her pace, “what gate is it?”

The man fumbles with his papers before appearing at her side, matching her increasing speed. “164... It’s in five minutes!” Something about the number rings a bell, but Mutsu sprints first, thinks later. Balancing coffee while intermittently glancing at her watch is a chore too.

“What’re you doing here if your flight’s in five minutes?!”

“I don’t know directions, okay?!”

Thus, the race begins. Washed with the adrenaline of childhood energy, zipping amongst throngs of future passengers and weaving in and out of others’ luggages, desperate to maneuver her own carry-on away from them, Mutsu feels more than a decade of age fall away from her usual, uptight demeanor. And she lets loose.

Amazing, how all it takes for her to relax is resurfacing old habits.

They dart in between a family of four, Mutsu apologizing profusely as she passed, Sakamoto lagging behind to ensure the two kids’ hands stitch back together with their parents.

“Oi, we don’t have time for that,” she calls, checking her watch though there’s a touch of humanitarian comfort seeing the lengths one man went to guarantee another family’s security.

She needn’t dwell on it.

He speeds up, luggage clunking at his heels, and she watches him hop onto the moving walkway. It irks her to watch him smugly smile and leisurely walk as he watches her pant, holding onto a burdensome carry-on and coffee as she tries to keep up.

“I should just lead you to the wrong gate and be done with it,” she growls low enough for him to hear.

His face falls. “I’m just kidding, I’ll be good!” He stumbles as his sneakers catch on the edge of the walkway’s end and looks up at the numbered gate signs as he loiters to the walkway side, mentally sorting out–left or right–where 164 would be.

Mutsu walks by where he is, facing him, sipping her coffee idly. He couldn’t look more lost, even if his gate number stared up right at him. “It’s on the right,” she gestures toward the spaced out signs, ‘160’ staring up at them. “It should be two gates away.”

He opens his mouth to possibly thank her and be on his way, but a rushing woman in clicking heels and a bulky purse bursts in between the space her companion leaves between the walkway and himself.  

It happens, unsurprisingly, all too fast. His elbow jerks into her forearm and she's helpless to the coffee countering the motion by spilling forward. A small sense of satisfaction glimmers as strongly as the brown stains all over his windbreaker. They collapse on the floor, Mutsu rubbing her back sore, the man across from her, sprawled on hands that broke his fall smiling sheepishly despite the java wafts coming from his jacket.

 _He rolls much too easily with the punches,_ Mutsu sighs as she spots her own carry-on leaning against its side, her ticket exposing itself from the precarious compartment she stuffed it into earlier.

She forgets to breathe as she crawls to it, picks it up, and reads the printed gate number. _You gotta be joking…_  

  
"Aww, now I'm gonna have to bother the poor passenger next to me if they hate coffee," he runs a hand through his curls and offers a hand to Mutsu, spotting her empty green cup, fallen to the wayside. "Oh! That was your coffee?!"  
  
"Who else's, idiot?" She takes his hand after righting her luggage up again, shoving her ticket in his face along with a printed email from the airline citing the delay in bold print. “And it seems to me that we’ve been rushing to catch the _same_ _delayed_ flight.”

“Oh shit?”

She nods. “Shit’s right.”

In spite of the biting remark, he’s unshakably buoyant. “Ahaha! How about I buy you a new one? We've got nothing better to do; consider it a favor, me paying. That’s how the business world works after all."

“You’re a businessman?” It’s his turn to nod. "Then you're way too idealistic,” Mutsu shakes her head. “If you’re a businessman then, tell me, what world runs on uncashed in favors?" 

  
"I'm telling ya, I'm your typical hippie, John Lennon revolutionary idealist and pacifist in another life,” he playfully wiggles his sunglasses and brows before relaxing his upturned cheeks.  “Accept the favor, I insist, Mutsu. We just went through a marathon after all.”

At first, she jolts at the mention of her name–had she even introduced herself properly to him?–when he gesticulates to the ticket in her hand.

  
"I didn't know you could be so serious….?”

“Sakamoto Tatsuma,” he answers her.

“Tatsuma,” she chooses to use his first name only because she isn’t sure if she gave away her last name when she flashed him her ticket and frankly, Mutsu isn’t inclined to give it away for conscience’s sake, “and fine, I’ll accept only if you let me buy you a new sweatshirt. I plan on buying the worst one out there for you to wear."

Surprisingly, even she can't keep up being serious herself when a touch of instinctive amusement pulls her lips upwards. So she would be buying the peeling, poorly weaved cotton, tourist-in-your-own-town’s sweatshirt after all…

* * *

 

They take their time finding a permissible coffee corner literally named “Coffee Corner” with a frivolous design of a steaming java cup as their logo printed on white and brown cups.

It’s exactly two hours before their flight is due for boarding, but somehow, Mutsu senses that those hours wouldn’t be wasted.

She places her order together with Tatsuma, and despite a last-ditch effort at paying for her own ristretto shot of espresso, he pushes her wallet away and slaps down exact change for both their coffees. “Nice try,” he contends when they pick up their respective espresso and latte, “but I’m a man of my word.”

“You forget who you’re dealing with because I didn’t forget either,” Mutsu responds, dragging her carry-on to her side as they exit the shop. She begins in the direction opposite to their gate, assuring Tatsuma that they had enough time in the world to peruse the sweatshirt tourist selections.

When they arrive at the first souvenir shop she stopped by after the security checkpoint, Tatsuma practically gravitates to the dark red hoodies from earlier.

“Why are these pilot themed? ‘Captain’?’” He practically claws at it, wrangling the sweatshirt from the hangar. “It’s so horrible, I just might love it.”

Mutsu makes a face. “Only _you_ would call this fashion.”

“Hey, you suggested this place. Therefore, it _must_ be a quality type of horrible.” Tatsuma pauses to consider something. Suddenly, he jabs a thumb first at himself then to her. “ If I’m a ‘captain’ of the skies, you’re definitely the ‘vice-captain’ for keeping me grounded, ya know, with all the bossing around you do.”

“There’s no such thing,” she replies and it’s an understatement to her entire being to realize the levity of words from a stranger. _Such throwaway words…_ she shakes her head, chalking it up to in-medias-res entertainment for him. Tatsuma pouts, eyes surveying the crammed store as his feet dizzy and assess the tourist merchandise. He scratches his neck.

“Aw, what kinda’ store doesn’t sell ‘vice-captain’ sweatshirts? Is it called ‘co-captain’ then?”

“Nevermind that, just pick your size. I’m tired of you reeking like what I'm drinking.”

“Thirsty much?” He waggles his eyebrows again and Mutsu slaps the hangar against his chest.

“Go change into it,” she orders. “I'll hold your jacket.”

Surprisingly, Tatsuma complies without any comment, tugging off his red windbreaker and replacing it with the darker red of the hoodie and the white lettering that threatened to crumble in a few washes.

“Looks good,” was all Mutsu says as she marches to the lady cashier. She cracks her wallet open again, thumbing through the credit cards before settling on her recent one. The lady’s smile is soft and inviting as she kindly fumbles with the price tag sticking out from Tatsuma’s side, Mutsu swiping her card when she finishes scanning the sweatshirt.

Mutsu grabs her luggage and wheels out of the store. Tatsuma follows a minute later, his attention span must be horrendous she thinks, but her eyes battle between softness and confusion at the keychain dangling, a ring secured right down his index finger as he waves.

“What’s that?” she barely manages to finish the question when he shoves it higher to meet her gaze, his fingers grabbing hers, and looping the keychain into her palm and hung around a digit. She repeats her question a few times feverishly, her neutral facade cracking before he draws his hand away.

“Well, look at it! Buying coffee is clearly not as expensive as a sweatshirt, Mutsu,” he scolds her, his other hand tucking his own leather wallet into the pocket of his joggers. Upon inspection, it’s a shiny–surprisingly, he scavenged the less cheap end of the store’s plastic trinkets–keychain that glints at the right angles to reveal an engraving of ‘co-captain’ along an airplane. It’s an airline brand, of course, but its product placement does little to bemuse her; it’s the whole gesture.

A strange inkling of deja vu...

“I suppose ‘co-captain’ does exist then,” she says cooly, working to attach the keychain to her set of house keys. She meets his twinkling gaze. “Thanks.”

Tatsuma imparts a wholly-enthused thumbs-up and with a flourish, thunders past her with his clunking carry-on. She doesn’t react right away, so he’s prompted to shuffle his feet to face back to her, and nod his head dramatically.

“C’mon! We still have…” he whips his head to a large clock and hesitates as he reads the time, “ a good thirty minutes to kill!”

He waits for her to catch up before launching into a conversation, his blue eyes lighting the way.

* * *

 

Eventually, the small talk ice breaks again as it did the first time and after some inquiry, they manage to reach a level of friendly understanding on family or professional matters. She offers little about her family, focusing on the more funny details like how everyone doted on her when her father brought her to work or vaguely touching upon her office rivalry with Onohara. In the midst of explaining Onohara’s promotion, Mutsu gulps a large part of her coffee as Tatsuma sidelines a look at her, asking how she felt about it.

“Me? Well, Captain Obvious,” she pointed to his shirt, laughing to hope lighten the heaviness underlying the caverns of her thoughts, “I didn’t have a field day about it and here I am, going to Nagoya to fix what the both of us messed up over one of our spats…” Mutsu sighs, rubbing a hand to her temple and a beat later, she withdrew it back to wheel her bag. “But enough about me, Tatsuma. Tell me about your seemingly sunshine past.”

"So my mom and dad were pretty well off. Spoiled me senseless even if I didn't see them often, but I didn't mind. My babysitter was _smoking_. A real gem." He’s rather scant on the details himself, but he’s back to his usual self when he lights up at the mention of his babysitter. She can’t help but roll her eyes.

"Do tell me more," she remarks caustically.  
  
"Well, she would let me do whatever I wanted unless it was dangerous,” he clarifies and he chuckles at the sight of her wide eyes.  “Oh, you thought I meant her looks, didn't you, hm? Who's shallow now?"  
  
Mutsu sighs, conceding to his antics. "You got me." He bursts out into laughter as he clutches his belly to reverberate as an extension to her.  
  
"Ahaha! Just kidding. She totally was hot."  
  
"What're you, 5?"  
  
"Nope, _guess_ ."  
  
She quirks a brow; a pause later and she sips the expresso, warm bitterness swallowed down her throat. He certainly has skill when it comes to entertaining others.  
  
"30." It's a shot in the dark guess but one she’ll stand by. He carries himself with a wisdom she's short by a few years but not by any stretch of the imagination is he more mature.  
  
His face contorts the most strained she’s ever seen him. "Ugh. Was I no good at acting young?"  
  
"So I'm right?"  
  
"29," he corrects with a sigh before raising his eyebrows at her, "and you're 26."  
  
She gawks at him and shakes her head in disbelief. It takes her second, but Mutsu lets it dawn on her slow but rewarding. A smile curls. "On the nose. You looked at my license when I opened my wallet, didn't you?"

Above their heads, the speakers blare a monotone male voice rattling off seat numbers for the flight. Mutsu perks at the mention of her flight number.  
  
Tatsuma acknowledges her brief break in attention and sips his latte with a sly touch to his lips, offering his delayed reply. It’s neat, simple, and clean. "A salesman never reveals his tricks."

Her hand shoots to the loose compartment in her luggage, Mutsu digging up her stack of business cards she keeps in a cosmetic bag that lacks any cosmetics.

She lets a man shoulder her without comment as she palms her card into Tatsuma’s, pressing it down against the tan of his skin.  
  
"Here's my number. One businessman to another, correct? I'd be lucky to work with you one day." She means it. There’s a lot of experience and wisdom behind his ridiculous shades and unnecessary athletic wear, but despite his seemingly directionally challenged brain, he made up for in astute observation and conversation.

In other words, he sells his reputation well.

His eyes blink a few times at her card and she thinks he mumbles something, but she isn't sure because his sudden aside is whisked away the moment he guffaws for the millionth time.  
  
"I'll text you my business contact tomorrow then."

* * *

  
As it turns out, there was no need. The following morning, Mutsu dresses in a tucked collar shirt, pants, and loafers, and single-handedly adjusts her guest ID lanyard around her neck. A black espresso warms her palm as she pushes an elevator button, double checking the floor, and finds the sleek meeting room as directed to her by the man in the lobby.

She sees shining teeth and blue eyes. A laugh nearly escapes her despite their company.

 _Why laugh?_ She inwardly asks herself, purses her lips, and reflects quickly. _Because I expected nothing less from the likes of him._

Mutsu clears her throat. "You're here. You. The idealist, the John Lennon revolu–" 

"Ahaha!” He cuts off her quoting immediately, the pleading in his clear blue eyes almost signaling for her to stop. “If it isn't my favorite vice-captain from the skies!" He is worlds more polished than in the early hours they spent at the airport. Donning a pressed suit and straight tie, his attire reveals nothing of the lazy athleticism his airport wear emanated.

To his fellow associates, he explains. "We ran into each other in the airport and shared a flight. Not to mention the two hour delay..."

His colleagues, an older woman and youthful man murmur small talk, pressing for details like old friends eager to hear the latest gossip. When the conversation takes a turn in discussion on the menial details of the weather, Mutsu straightens her back and bows, all courtesies she should have done minutes ago.

"My apologies–I nearly forgot my manners. I’m Kaien Mutsu of the Chidori Group. Pleased to meet you and I look forward to working with you all.”

The other man and woman bow and shake hands with her. Tatsuma extends his own, and Mutsu shakes it with equivocal firmness as future business partners should.

"Sakamoto Tatsuma, delighted to see you again,” he says, reintroducing himself.  
"Let's get down to business shall we?"

* * *

> _unknown number_ , _7:07pm : i take it back, a woman at the airport yelled at me at the security check_
> 
> _unknown number, 7:08pm: and i may have thought she was smoking...from all the steam coming out of her ears! (LOLZJK)_

Mutsu nearly drops the blow dryer. She rolls her eyes, ignoring her keys on the hotel’s nightstand glinting up at her, and changes the contact information to match the texter’s identity. For good measure, until she confirms it, she mashes the ‘?” key on his name.

> _Mutsu Kaien, 7:11pm: Tatsuma, when I gave you my business contact, I didn't intend on overstepping any lines or enabling workplace harassment._
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai)???, 7:12: it's not tatsuma it's katsura (lol)_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 7:1pm2: Who?_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai)???, 7:13pm: I'm his best drinking buddy. And Miss Mutsu, it's my duty to pick up women for him (*kya!*). Especially on his phone._

She deletes the question marks.

> _Mutsu, 7:15: let me ask you, how's your own love life going, Mr. Katsura?_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 7:20: ...I’ll go home._

Her phone buzzes non-stop in the middle of her typing away her victory email to Onohara.

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 9:50: Hey, Mutsu! Can you guess who it is?_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 9:54: wait wha? How did we have a conversation two hours ago??_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 9:58: oh shit._
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 9:58: MUTSU I’M SO SORRY FOR MY ROOMMATE_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 9:59: I TELL HIM /ONE/ FUNNY STORY AND HE TAKES IT SOSO DUMBLY._

Mutsu reads the notifications as they fly across her lockscreen and the second her screen flickers to blackin stand by, she knows it’s a lost cause to even bother powering through writing that email in the middle of Tatsuma’s breakdown.

She picks up her phone. Time to defuse his rant to focus on work.

> _Mutsu Kaien, 10:00pm: It's fine, I understand the situation, Tatsuma. Please quit spamming._
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 10:00pm:  I MEAN, HE YELLS ‘IT'S NOT ZURA IT'S KATSURA’ EVERY 5 SECS SO YA HE'S SUPER DUMB_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 10:01: I gathered as much._

To be frank, the way they both text is rather funny. Still, she needs to write her email and lay out the details to Onohara before he finds some obscure loophole to magnify instead of listening to the facts.

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 10:01pm: but i promise he's got a big heart and does things for my best interest. So that means... I guess i should have texted sooner, huh?_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 10:02: I didn't notice. It's fine, you can stop rambling_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 10:03pm: Especially since we’re colleagues now!! How crazy is that?! Y’know, I didn't realize you would be our partner until you gave me your card._
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 10:03: That was surprising…so you knew?_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 10:04pm: ;D_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai): 10:04pm: Didn’t see that trick now did you?_

No, Mutsu thinks with an eye roll and laugh much different than when they first started texting, she didn’t.


	2. modest moments and social (honest) hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her personal life is especially riveting considering Tatsuma’s persistence and everyone else’s insistence that they’re a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is finally here! Recall the ‘déjà vu’ line and how Mutsu felt gravitated to Sakamoto for some reason in the other part. Also remember Fumiko from the Renho arc? Honestly, the structure is different from the first chapter as it pieces together various scenes over the course of a few days as it tapers to a single event at the end. It gets deep for a minute there. This is un-beta'd, I will thoroughly edit this another day, perhaps. Thank you to you guys for your readership! More notes at the end. Happy reading and let me know what you thought by commenting!

The bristles on the toothbrush begin to wear down after its third week and Mutsu makes a mental note to drop by the convenience store for a new, purple one. Last month, she bought a blue one, and the freshness of June weathered her down to soldier on with tradition in the form of a purple toothbrush.

The order is, without fail for 20 years, red, blue, purple. The smallest details she could control. Never mind that Tatsuma swung by her office after hours, after previously stopping by to drop off additional documents. Homework for Monday.

While Tatsuma was a tentative, potential permanent colleague, she never could predict his whimsical ideas.

He laughed at her "clinically characteristic but charming" office space of a succulent, paperweight, and pen holder on her desk, a potted fern by the door, and her bag, the keychain far from being a negligible accessory.

_"I expected nothing less from you," he finished guffawing, swiping his thumbs under his eyes to catch the tears. More seriously but never losing his usual blitheness, "It's Ballin' Wednesday!I thought it'd be fun to go out for some shots at The Hub since it's Wednesday."_

_"Wednesday has nothing to do with getting drunk though."_

_"Not if it's 100 yen Highball night!"_

Aside from Mutsu's personal beliefs on how that should be downright  _illegal_ considering the drunken repercussions the police and late-night pedestrians would have to deal with, she decided to go.

Looking up from her bathroom mirror, placing her toothbrush where it belongs, and flopping on her bed, one would think her day is complete.

That is until her phone buzzes on cue.

When Tatsuma said he would text her later after their early evening round of drinks, she hadn't expected it  _at 12am_. She unlocks her lock screen and her groggy vision makes out a string of images and keyboard mashing gibberish conveying nothing except the obvious fact that he was, inexplicably, drunk.

She wants to smack a hand on her forehead at his idiocy. So the moron went out and drank some more  _after_  they had their round of social drinking? Unbelievable.

It buzzes again. She turns off the vibrating option on her phone, and while her finger hovers over the 'mute conversation' lettering over his name, she doesn't press down.

Instead, she reads on.

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma, 12:01am: Mutsufhsbjsf I had too MUCH to DRINK I swear Zura's gonna replace me with a penguin cosplayer!qqws111_

"Uhhh, who?" She feels her body lean more onto the hand on the counter. At the same time, Fumiko's name appears at the top, and Mutsu purposefully waits for her text notification to disappear.

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma, 12:01am: 11111111qaqsqhwbdsjwqd diahdw 111 !_

At this point, it's safe to assume that he's too stoned to read his own texts, so she dials his number. He picks up right away and wastes no time slurring.

"Wazzup, Mutsu?"

Definitely inebriated.

"So, Tatsuma, found even more time to text your colleague while going for another round of drinks without me, huh?"

"Nooo! I didn't mean ta' It's all Zura's fault!"

The audio on his end muffles and fizzles as though the phone dropped against something hard. Moments later, he picks it back up again, panting about he'll kill his roommate over someone named Elizabeth and how much he needed to stop eavesdropping on his phone conversations. Inwardly, Mutsu thought,  _But you were practically yelling into the phone in a public spot…_

By the time his tirade ended, Mutsu sighs, feeling sleep grip her. "Tatsuma, please stop texting me strange things at midnight."

It's safe to say, even if he ambushed her after work, this was a weekly occurrence. For the past three weeks, thrice a week. According to Zura, someone she ironically has only ever texted via Sakamoto's phone, he goes on texting surges because 'at times, he can't even handle himself'.

"Aww, but it was a beautiful sight! Did you see all of my photos?"

"You sent a dozen selfies of you laughing," her thumb scrolls up the past texts from 11pm to check if there was anything beautiful about it. There isn't. "And then by 11:30, you were crying over a lady with a Bitch bag."

"Ahahaha! Indeed, a man in his most vulnerable is beautiful, right, Mutsu? Especially after a cold rejection, ahahaa! Ahaha!" There's a vague choking sound and sniffle from his end of the line.

Did she just…hit a nerve? What? Mutsu stares at the white screen against the stark black of her bedroom.

She plops back onto her pillow, her finger an inch away from pressing the red 'end' button. White papers staring up at her in her peripherals reminds her of another errand tomorrow, for better or for worse, still involving Tatsuma.

Purely for her company and his benefit, obviously.

His dragged out sigh brings her back to the present moment and she frowns at the reality: waking up in a short few hours. "It was such a quality Bitch bag…you know, my mom owns one, maybe that's why–"

"I'm tired. Don't text me again unless it's urgent."

Tucking herself in the covers, Mutsu tries to push away the thoughts about work tomorrow and drunken men from her brain, pretending that her mattress wasn't hard or her hair too wet, that everything was still and at peace.

Strangely, the phone call helped her fall asleep quicker than usual.

* * *

Mutsu wakes up the next morning in a mood and with the dying urge to get shit done. She feels it in her dry throat and stiff arm, operating without coffee was never her prime.

Before her supposed lunch break that day, she gulps a double espresso from the faded coffee maker and chucks the Styrofoam cup on her way to entering her colleague's office.

Staring at his lazy gaze and disinterested frown lines entirely too absorbed in the wrapped sandwich in front of him, Mutsu realizes that a single espresso did not prepare her for this conversation.

"I can't believe the store ended their sale  _five minutes_  before I paid, piece of shit bread and their shit cheese…" he angrily unwraps it, not even acknowledging her formal greeting or outright presence.

Her grin twitches and fades. In a few words, working with Sakata Gintoki is a balancing act between "it was a pleasure, thank you for your insight," and "I know you're half-assing your proposals, get it together, if you  _please_ ," the 'please' added in afterthought and afterthought alone.

Because sincerely, the man refuses to take work seriously when she needed him to.

It's half past one and while she's skimping on her sad, convenience store-bought lunch, her colleague dines like he hasn't eaten in ages, her papers from this morning haphazardly tossed aside. From across his light wooded desk, scattered with fine print papers and his homemade sandwich at the forefront, he chews into the ham and cucumber, white bread and cheese of his lunch. With each passing second, his jaw crunches louder and more audible. A grating against a professional's ears. Most definitely it's the cucumbers.

Yeah, indubitably, she is leaning towards the latter option. A late sign off on their plans is normal but complete, unacknowledged phone calls and appointments wring Mutsu's pride.

No amount of calming visuals and breathing exercises could exorcise her impatience, but then, the glimmer of glass on the edge of his desk angles perfectly for her eyes to spot. Mutsu has to glance at his framed photo of his curly locks caught between the monstrous grip of a red-headed child–Kagura, if Mutsu recalls her timeless, tomboyish feminity correctly–to steel effectively herself against her colleague's munching.

"Sakata, I  _really_  need your opinion in closing the Kaientai partnership," she enunciates each syllable with a finger puncture to the Birchwood desk, far less seething than a moment ago. "Onohara will decapitate us both, maybe even fiddle with our bonuses, and we can kiss our first Friday drinking rituals goodbye. So, if you will."

"Hey," he stops eating his lunch to bother frowning, "you bailed on me last time for Tatsuma, a fucking  _clown._ "

He isn't wrong, but she didn't like the window of opportunity he's dancing around before he flings open a storm of his crappy opinions to whip her in the face. It was a simple get together at a different bar because it so happened he lived in Tokyo, not Nagoya, because he dealt with their side offices here, and the man hit on enough girls for Mutsu to count on one hand, inebriated  _and_ sober. So  _no thanks,_ Mutsu steels herself further,  _I'd very much like to not entertain high schooler taunts._ Mutsu pushes her papers, all clipped and stacked cleanly, further towards him. It boots his sandwich wrapping onto his lap and he glares at her as though she uttered blasphemy to his religion.

"Who is, in fact, part of Kaientai Corporation. We need their Nagoya port for expediting our technology and frankly, he's silly, but he knows his priorities unlike a certain moron eating a sandwich instead of signing our project off."

"That's because you're hounding me during my lunch break!" His voice pitches an octave and Mutsu now understands how Tatsuma and Sakata got along easily, immediate impressions aside. Hysterical, he continues, "Leave me alone! I wanted to catch up on the last season of Dragon Ball Super until your workaholic ass attacked me!"

"Do you know how lame you sound right about now?" She wrests his sandwich from his hands and despite the potential crime scene about to go down, Sakata clenches his empty fist, and leans in his chair, blowing a loud sigh. Mutsu urges a pen against his closed hand.

"Is there a reason you're so against their brand?" She doesn't realize her mouth twitch in sync with her fingers once she says it.

Finally, after another long breath is released, Sakata accepts the pen and his sloppy signature transfers onto the necessary lines. It's skimpy in length but thick in ink blotting. She sighs in relief– _finally._

However, it's fleeting.

When he looks up, Mutsu narrows her eyes at the suspicious smirk blooming at the edges of his mouth. She's spent far too many Fridays with her co-worker and babysitting his adoptive daughter (on the days the Shimuras couldn't of course) back in the day when they weren't on equal footing, to realize he's playing a hand.

Mutsu starts to formulate a taunt, to verbally prod and probe for a bluff somewhere but his level, knowing eyes give her pause.

"I'm not," he says, setting the pen back into her palm, "it's just fun watching you so  _whipped_  for that idiot's brand if you know what I mean."

"Excuse me? Are you –are you kidding?"

"C'mon, Mutsu, you can't  _really_  want me to sign off on all of this for this start-up company. It's my guy Sakamoto's disarmingly annoying teeth that reel a kickass lady in, not his port!"

She scrutinizes Gintoki for a beat longer to confirm if he  _means_  it. Indeed, there's been wingman moments before, but if her silver-haired colleague had any sense, considering his friendship with both parties, he'd eat his words. Rather, he'll quit butting his nose in matters that didn't require his observations. He could get extreme with those.

"I'm not going to dignify your overzealous  _fanfiction_  with an answer," she gathers the papers with her free hand and still clutches his oily sandwich with the other. It's understandable for the upset for bailing on their social outing  _but accusing her of something so unprofessional is…is…_

Mutsu stands and as if fully waking up from his high-horse daydreams, Sakata stands too, gestulicating to his lunch.

"Wait, wait, wait, Kaien," he's sweating profusely, his smile just as watery. "Hand over the delicious hostage you got there at least, pretty  _super_ please!"

She ignores him, her foot halfway out the door. Mutsu turns to flash a dazzling smile.

"Sorry. It's trash," she says matter-of-factly. And then she drops it in the trash receptacle by the door.

Later, as she keeps to the dry, grey, domineering walls of the HR department, hugs them with the edge of her loafers as she skirts around the bustle of the middle path, her throat is desiccated by a long day of work which mostly involved tracking Sakata down. Now that she's succeeded and wrapped up her side project and confirmed the crunched numbers as sound, Mutsu finds the nearest water cooler and swallows a cold cup in a gulp.

Mutsu smells the orange blossom at her side, barely needing to catch sight of the painted lips and auburn locks to mentally prepare herself for whatever bizarre dialogue about to go down.

"Fumiko, what is it that you need?"

"Sex. Lots and lots of sex," Mutsu chokes on what remaining water she swallowed. She glares as Fumiko twirls around theatrically, brushing her wavy hair back with an air of perfume tickling Mutsu's nose more than she wanted. "Foreplay, penetration, you know the works."

"Why are you here again? Please keep the conversation relevant to me." While her colleague's trysts are no secret, Mutsu prefers to pretend it was exactly that.

The older woman's eyes widen for a moment and then Fumiko goes in for a wink and nudge of Mutsu's shoulder.

"Who says it's not relevant to you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Mutsu swears one of the younger co-workers' nose bled at the oozing sexuality her colleague liked to show off.

Politely shrugging Fumiko's touch, Mutsu forces a beam as she turns on her heel. "I'm leaving."

"No, no! Wait, it's about Eren again!"

Mutsu pinches the bridge of her nose; she should've seen this coming. During the times she's conceded to lunch outings with Fumiko, it's impossible to deny their friendly acquaintance-ship built around despising Onohara and occasional office gossip Fumiko shamelessly shared. Eventually, their conversation topics shifted to her ex Eren and his former deadbeat, amusement-park career before he moved on to bigger things, leaving her behind the second his life got better.

"Well, there goes any chance of passing the bechdel test."

"Oh please, you never gave that much of a damn about that." Her eyes are bright, full of desperation for companionship. "So can you talk?"

"No," when she sees Fumiko's face fall, Mutsu cuts off what she knows to be an expected begging fiasco full of sniffles and waterworks, "but I can talk after work. I just got out of my lunch break and Onohara won't appreciate it if I extended it."

"Great! Let's go to this restaurant I keep hearing raving reviews about–all for ramen and soba, can you believe that?"

If Mutsu would experience a night listening to the same love life rant about the same guy for the millionth time, the restaurant had better be worth it.

* * *

The wafts of steaming noodles are undeniably mouth-watering. A long day of working out the finalization of their company's partnership with the Kaientai, Mutsu craves nothing more than stuffing a bowl of ramen or two in a single sitting. Fumiko's scolding be damned.

"Here, here!" A porcelain hand shoots up, an overdone smile plastered across her face.

Mutsu then listens and listens as the words mesh together and sound like gibberish until Fumiko confesses to drinking one too many cups of sake and excuses herself to the bathroom. At the same time a dark-haired man emerges from the kitchen, scolding a  _very_  hairy legged man, Mutsu realizes the rest is…

Her lips loosen and mind worn from listening to her co-worker, she shamelessly marveled. "Holy shit…he wasn't kidding about a penguin cosplayer."

The penguin stopped in his tracks and held up a sign. 'I'm not a cosplayer, lady.'

"I'm repeating what I was told."

'Are you here with Fumiko to spy on me?'

"I've only heard about you from Tatsuma and his roommate. When they said Kotaro's cosplayer pal did something, I incorrectly assumed it was a hobby over a way of life."

'So you're Tatsuma's lady?' Before she could correct him, the penguin bowed shortly with a new scribble on the sign. 'My apologies. I'm Elizabeth.'

"Kaien Mutsu."

"Eren, you bastard, get away from Mutsu!" In a dramatic flip of her auburn hair and wrenching Mutsu from her seat in misplaced heroism from her ex, she rounds on Mutsu as though she were partly to blame "You made contact with the enemy and didn't tell me?"

"I–"

Elizabeth raises another sign. 'I thought you said you never heard of me from her?'

"…so you're saying you've been in an on-and-off relationship with this man named, 'Elizabeth', but you decided to nickname him after that spineless boy in Attack on Titan?" Mutsu crossed her arms and quirked a brow at Fumiko. "Believe me now?"

'Any side away from her, I'm on,' the penguin responds.

"Alright, alright, fine," says Fumiko.

Tatsuma waltzes in immediately hitting on a woman a handful of years his junior calling her "sweetness" and that is how she realizes he's there. How was a coincidence of this magnitude possible?  _It would explain why I felt like I've seen him before_ , she ponders, eyes subconsciously following the light shining on her silver keychain.

As the possibilities congeal in her head, he takes a seat at the food bar and starts animatedly gesturing to the owner like an old friend with far less flirtation. A moment later, a dark-haired man washing a bowl, dripping suds and water everywhere, tries to spook the owner when he slips. Tatsuma wheezes like he usually does when a non-mutual, hysterical misfortune happens to another friend.

Mutsu notices she laughs at the same time as Elizabeth. Curiously, she peers at him; she wasn't sure if he spoke at all, but here they were, laughing at the owner's presumed lover misery.

"Oh, Elizabeth, there ya are–MUTSU?!"

He jolts, electrified and jubilant, leaping from his chair to give her a high five. Elizabeth grumbles to himself, again the only words she's heard from her, really, and takes out a cigarette and leaves for a smoke. It's a shocking situation, but with Tasuma charging at her, words flying out of his mouth and arm wrapped around her shoulders, she has no time to comment on it. All she can do is simply adjust and let it be.

She's suddenly thankful that Fumiko left her and Elizabeth in their awkward, one-sided, audible conversation wherein she avoided complaining about witnessing an unnecessary altercation between the two ex-lovers, ending in her co-worker covered in snot and tears. If Fumiko were present, she'd never hear the end of it at work; it's enough to hear it from Sakata, but a female friend?

So help her, the gun tucked away in her safe at home would be very tempted to be broken open.

Excitedly, Tatsuma introduces Ikumatsu and Katsura to her, and she's shocked to see the same man she roasted over text on his love life showing off a successful one, when Katsura supplies that it was new, though not without defensively salvaging his honor when Ikumatsu pointedly adds the part to the story where he tried to distance himself from her.

It's a compelling story, and admittedly, especially so coming from one of Tatsuma's friends, from his infamous roommate, no less.

Later, she runs into another familiar face by happenstance when Kagura and a sandy-haired boy come in for what Mutsu suspects is a date. The younger female lights up in recognition of everyone and greets Mutsu first, pulling her into her signature bear hugs; she knows this because whenever she sees Otae or Tsukky she bundles them up in a similar bone-crushing show of affection typical of Kagura.

After exchanging small talk and rapid-fire gossip about Gintoki, Tatsuma and Zura even joining in on the fun (just how many people were sick of the man?) –they enjoyed obtaining new work-only or home-only information whenever possible to hold over his head in their individual situations–her companion nudged her on the shoulder as Ikumatsu handed him a hefty plastic bag with their dinner.

"China girl, we're going to have to hurry if we want to make it for Soyo's recital."

She swatted him away but shouldered on her coat on all the same. "Don't rush me, Sadist, I'm collecting very valuable information." Kagura ignores the eye roll her boyfriend(?) gives her as she starts for the door, waving enthusiastically. "Now, Mutsu, have fun flirting this idiot! Don't worry, Gin-chan told me all about it!"

Zura starts cracking up, Ikumatsu shushes him, Tatsuma raises his brows, and Mutsu sighs. It is as if since her work life relished in reprieve, her personal life necessitated imaginary, romantic drama.

"What is with the Sakatas?"

"I dunno, the idea of you flirting with me is rather entertaining," Tatsuma slides closer to her but with respectful space left, chin resting on his palm. "Besides, the idea's not all that arbitrary, considering you're a pretty face and I'm handsome."

"So your idea of romance is based on a couple's aestheticism? I didn't peg you for the western, Oscar Wilde enthusiast, 'art for art's sake' seems random to me."

"While  _The Importance of Being Ernest_  is the funniest shit the Brits ever came up with, Banana Yoshimoto's an unexpected favorite."

She pauses as she absorbs the information. "Didn't think you were into magical realism."

He smiles, waving his confession away and continues his point. "Now, take Zura and Ikumatsu for example. Dark hair, blonde hair. Kagura and her new boy toy: striking red, plain straw blond."

"So apply that to us," Mutsu gestures between them, "you're shithead brunette and I'm more Mother Nature brunette."

"Is this your guys' weird way of flirting? This is even worse than Tsukuyo-dono and Gintoki, to be honest."

Eyeing the sake and resigning to her urges, she beckons Ikumatsu to pour more. "I should take a shot every time someone mistakes us for flirting?"

"Maybe I am flirting with you," Tatsuma says. "Maybe it's no mistake.

She laughed, mostly because she didn't know what else to say, and shoved him a filled cup.

* * *

Tatsuma, upon Ikumatsu's insistence, walks her home. But her toothbrush took precedence and stumbling drunk into a 24-hour store isn't the prettiest picture because all she can feel is irrevocably bummed out that they ran out of purple.

"These assholes don't have purple," she grumbles as she places her purchase on the counter, the man across all-watery smiles as she slides the coins on the counter. "Hey, don't look so afraid."

"You can start by lowering your voice," Tatsuma offers, evidently beating her to soberness. She didn't think she was yelling; she rarely shouted unless it was warranted, but as he apologizes profusely to the man, sunglasses off his face, Mutsu realizes that she's in for a confusing walk home.

And prophecy becomes reality when she starts rambling about how she's angry over a blue toothbrush instead of a purple toothbrush and she finds herself relating it to the blue sweatshirts and keychain at the airport, accusing Tatsuma for being another detail unaccounted for that day.

"Aw, I wasn't too horrible to ya, I don't think."

"No!" This time, she realizes she's shouting and forces herself to relax. At the very least, she's able to catch herself. Perhaps those drinks were wearing off, albeit on snail time. "Not at all. I mean, a weirdo and dork, sure–"

"Slightly drunk Mutsu is just Mutsu to the one hundredth exponent and I'm kind of glad you didn't unleash this when we went to Ballin' Wednesday."

" _I said_ ," this time her intonation is on purpose, "You were strange but it was for the best anyway because I work with you now."

"Yes  _and_  because I know how to have a good time," Tatsuma chuckles and then shrugs. "Besides, I'm glad I ran into you, it had been awhile since I saw you."

"What, because my dad's a runaway debtor and blacklisted in the business world?"

He raises a brow and frankly, she can hardly believe she brought it up herself.

"Kaien," Tatsuma says it slowly like he's drinking the words themselves. It's the way he pronounces it, emphasizes the concise syllables, that Tatsuma's decided to excavate a long-exposed skeleton of hers she uncovered. "He's quite the scum. Pictures of you would be pulled up in the news when it came to light that you would take up business."

When in actuality, it is no secret, to the public, even. But she likes to think she can pretend, at least, with people who don't know her much. To him.

The low lights of the light posts illuminate the way. It does nothing to ease the chill or rush circulating her body, propelling her forward.

She doesn't like it at all. It twists a knot she recently feels in her gut. Crestfallen feels all too real of a description if she let her chest tighten with every string pulsating and hacking away blood flow to her feature. Because it's still, so very still, but her hand twitches more than she can control.

Tatsuma breathes out, long. "That's not right for anyone ta bring that up, ain't that right? Some asshole I am, telling you what you already know."

"It's okay," she tells him a little faster than she intends. Without thinking it through, she finds herself amending it to clear the hesitation from his brow. "We can talk about it."

Unexpectedly, he pulls his body in reaction. "Wait, what do you mean by 'it'?"

"Well, what does anyone mean by 'it'?"

"Ohh, the movie by Stephen King with the clowns!"

"No!" She facepalms and rubs her temples–just how deep does his obliviousness run? And how far does copyright extend in fanfiction?

"Mutsu, you know me by now!" He throws his hands into the air, at a loss. "You gotta spell these things out for me!"

"All the shady, skimming, embezzlement frauds a shitty father ran away from. How it makes me angry but I had to suck it up because I had an already predestined future ruined by his sorry..." The next instant after, she slaps a pale, pale, paling palm over her mouth. She presses against it like any more  _stupid_  ideas verbalize faster than her brain can acknowledge will leak through the cracks.

 _Know when to be quiet and do what you have to,_  she berates herself, in a mental tone that takes her maturity up a few notches but her age pegged back down to her childhood.

He coughs into a curled-up hand. "Here, let's stop here."

Interestingly, he too has a nervous tic. His is opening and closing his fist to the rhytmn of what must be his chest. Or maybe she's just projecting.

"Aren't you going to say something? A snarky comment about daddy issues?" She snaps as she leans her back against the wall.

"Not really," he stares forwardly and lets out a low laugh. When he feels the brunt of her glare, he holds his hands up to placate, "I wasn't laughing at you, I wasn't laughing at you I swear!"

Mutsu harumphs, arms locked across her chest like a spell to ward him away. "You're such a blockhead."

"Boy do I know it! Ahahah!" Meekly, he continues, "Actually, I was thinking about the other thing I meant to bring up. It wasn't really about your dad. More like how I met a Kaien daughter when she was 16 but it wasn't the best of times for her, so she probably forgot about me."

"What're you babbling on about?"

He sighs into the night, the cool, spring humidity suddenly feeling more of a spark to a match more than anything. Mutsu scrutinizes him longer than she knows is appropriate, searching for any of his usual tics, his giveaways in the brow or in the upturn of the mouth.

But there's none.

"Aww, you really think you're going to find answers without asking, first? Sheesh, how rude. I'm saying that…" The air hangs between them, silent as him until he exhales like he's never felt his lungs feel so relieved. "We've met before."

There's another beat that magnetizes Mutsu forward, rocking on the balls of her feet, arms untangling to rest at her sides. But her face does not shift, it eases.

"Is this some ill-timed prank? Because It's not funny."

His face reads exactly what he's grumbling to himsef:  _Actually, you're being so deadpan and dead serious that it's not even funny! Am I that cruel to you, Mutsuuu?!_

Safe to say, he's sweating bullets when he has no reason to be. She's simply asking.

"No! Nonono, why would I lie about this?"

She raises a palm for her to cheek to lean on, her other arm's elbow supporting her conscientious look. After a heartbeat, Mutsu half-turns, her profile revealing two-thirds of her to him. "I suppose you were nothing remarkable then."

In between a somber chuckle and half-moon of a grin, Sakamoto shrugs. "I'd like to consider myself unforgettably handsome and clever, but yeah," his index finger meets his thumb in a ridiculous 'OK' gesture. "Back then, I was annoying  _as hell_ , so I can let it slide just this once."

She contemplates this, a hand tucked underneath her chin before she fully faces him. "This explains the keychain thing…" She continues but leaves her ruminations on the 'keychain thing' to herself. He appears to stop himself from asking when she sees a tiny smile quirk on her face. "Thank you then. I actually do remember something kind from you, you've always given me that feeling that you had more to you."

Her childhood is murky save for turning points in her family and academia, but at least, out of all of the roughness that her father brought to her name, he remembers her not by familial misdeeds but by his efforts to give her a better day. Not an amazing one, but a simplistic one a kind acquaintance at a party could give. He's genuine when he nudges her elbow gently, other hand tucked away in a pocket; he's at ease at last and the contact travels in their contact, switching on the warmth she seemed to be warding away all night.

"Aw, I give you feelings, huh?"

"Don't push your luck, Tatsuma."

He shrugs, not because he needed to brush it off–he was long-adjusted to her scoldings and they both find comfort in that, that they mean well in their individualistic ways. Tatsuma pushes off the wall and then they're off, they arrive at her place at long last, and she begins her bid goodbye when Tatsuma beats her to it, shoulders abnormally high, as though he were talking to the head of a company instead of his usual jocular, will-hit-on-you-for-the-hell-of-it attitude. This side to him suggests something more, what he tries to hide, and though Mutsu has felt it underlying everything he does, his uncertainty shows in his seemingly laid-back confident attitude.

But he is the picture of serious and sincere and so, she lets him talk.

"Yoshimoto's a secret favorite of mine because I found her book in my mom's things. It's called  _Kitchen._ Remember how I told you my parents were always away? Wasn't always work. My dad remarried and became busy with his new wife, that's why. My mom died because, well, leukemia six months before he got married again. I was nine. And I thought to myself, how is there great loss with love? Mikage, the main character, ends up finding friends to lean on, to heal. And eventually, when I put myself out there with my leadership camps and meeting so many people, I multiplied love in different forms, through making other people smile and giving them what they came for. Because as a kid, I was home and it was like, if my dad came home, I wasn't what he came for.

"I know magical realism is all about dreams and escaping, maybe it's not masculine to enjoy it, but the sentiment that someone understood loneliness and put it into words fascinated me. Sorry, I know you didn't ask for my story, but I needed to say it so you'd feel better in the morning after spilling your guts to me about your dad," he chuckles at that and finally meets her gaze. He is striking in the night. "Besides, I didn't mind telling you because I know you'd get it."

Mutsu lets herself smile and holds the bag with her blue toothbrush closer. He's really an unaccounted for detail and she couldn't find herself more impressed by him, by his ambition, his motivations. It's admirable, inspiring, real. A night that began with listening to Fumiko's failed love life metamorphoses for the better, opening two people up who needed it, to see a new light to it all.

"Thank you for telling me. I knew you'd get it, too."

There's a second where she thinks this it it, this is where the magical realism spell dispels, and the light coming from her apartment complex that seems brighter and luminous will finally dim and reveal the ending of the day.

But then he speaks, and it isn't over yet.

"Forget magical realism, Mutsu. There's an art gallery event, a nonprofit thing, but let's just call it more of my aestheticism showing," he tries not to deflate at her head tilt, but he continues anyway as if he were completely confident in whatever her response would be for the next part. She admires his tenacity all the same. "Would you want to go with me? As people who tolerate each other and need some aesthetic on their arm."

He doesn't even wiggle his brows.

Mutsu considers him for a full minute, perhaps debating between remarking on his overconfidence or the meaning of his invitation when she says something so surprising, he almost trips: she says yes.

* * *

> _Sakata Gintoki (Work) 11:18am: ?!_

Mutsu groans. She was about to text him about their department meeting next week, their message history opened and her fingers over the phone keyboard, but alas there is no escaping the 'read' receipts and the inevitable confrontation. In retrospect, she could have avoided it altogether if she told Tatsuma 'no', but then…

Then it'd be a detail she didn't control; she'd had to have held back from what she wanted to say. And she went and said it.

No take backs and that meant dealing with Sakata.

> _Sakata Gintoki (Work) 11:20am: YOU SAID YES TO A DATE WITH TATSUMA_
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work) 11:22am: I TOLD YOUR BITCH ASS YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH HIM_
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work) 11:23am: BUY ME A NEW SANDWICH PAY UP_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 11:24am: Wtf? You're getting nothing._
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 11:24am: Do you boys have a Discord you gossip in or something? It's none of your business_

To herself, she shakes her head at Sakata's diction–it's simply too soon. But then she remembers the leverage delivered to her before she left the restaurant when she ran into a reliable information source.

> _Mutsu Kaien, 11:25am: I'm not the one in love here, you and your sorry ass can't even get the balls to ask Tsukky out and how long has it been?_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 11:26am: it's been years and still you just screenshot photos off of her facebook instead of just getting your fix by manning up._
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work), 11:27am: …_
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work), 11:27am: god DAMMIT, Kagura told you, didn't she?_
> 
> _Mutsu Kaien, 11:28am: Met her while she was on a date herself with her school's kendo president. Even your daughter's got more game than you. I feel sorry for you._
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work), 11:29am: Uncle. Hate that kid. The bratty sadist president, not my kagura._
> 
> _Sakata Gintoki (Work), 11:30am: Anyway, please consider eating my ass good night this conversation is over_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important question! Should I do a third part detailing the art gallery date? Something tells me this fic isn't over yet.  
> EDIT: yeah, I couldn't resist, a third chapter's in the works now, optimistically it'll be completed before the month's end.
> 
> In conclusion, this took many 2am nights to finish. I'm so happy to be writing (I haven't put a dent into any of my WIPS until this week) and to be frank with you, not entirely pleased with this, mostly because I like the angle where I give Mutsu time to narrate her life and work out her relationships with other people apart from her love interest, and I find it challenging given the sparse content and frankly, canon relationships. In addition, I'd like to address the ending conversation as simply an expression of vulnerability.  
> I confess, I know it could be better and if anyone is willing to direct me on how to improve myself, I'd love to hear it because it's 2am and I have no idea, this has been incomplete for too long.  
> A bit of creative freedom there and I'm telling you, the beginning was especially difficult because I've had it sitting on my Word drafts since March and. it's. been. far. too. long. And with that, I await your response!


	3. nightime and daytime meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes in a long breath that lasts too short but too much for her lungs to take. “It’s what’s for the best.” // Work puts a strain on Mutsu and her personal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic continuing wasn't meant to happen but it seems right to continue this fic because I have fun with it, lol. So wow, a bit of plot and sweet parts here. I want to note that perhaps Mutsu and Sakamoto's character is characterized and developed in a way where I used the canon as reference and interpreted it from a different angle. I noticed that it might be slightly ooc, but that's up to your discretion! Thanks for all your support for sakamutsu and my writing and don't forget to leave me your thoughts, lovelies! Happy reading!

There’s a distinct clack that resonates in the lowlight of a backend bar as Sakata and Mutsu finish off another drink, asking for a flask through the art of reverberating cups against the table.

The bartender sighs, none the wiser to refuse Mutsu when she’s the least rowdy of the pair and usually the one who pays on the nights Sakata loses his wallet (which, of course, she follows up with interest), but as he refills their sake holder, he doesn’t forget to give Sakata a hand single denoting ‘only one more’.

With a dismissive hand as Mutsu feels the conversation tipping in her favor, Sakata reels their first Friday ritual away from his issues and casts his line into her own pond of romantic woes. She offers, out of fairness, a succinct explanation. Glazes over the deep end of their conversation, the instant she realized Sakamoto Tatsuma is not thoroughly a fraud in his way of life but a mere buffoon who makes the most of his own, withholds the blossoming feeling that he finds her company more than a coincidence, forgoes the complex revelation that somehow, her regimented life unfurled the second he gave her a work ethic that is not for provisionary survival, but to each their own perpetuating their own philosophies of living be it magical realism, aestheticism, or other thematics they had yet to dissect in their next conversation.

She is sparse in her detailings because Sakata is a colleague, a drinking buddy with many other buddies to share a night smelling of heated alcoholism, but she exaggerates their art movement banter and skips right to the blunt, “and that’s how he asked me out,” without further questioning.

Because all Sakata can focus on is the nerdy banter on art movements and books. His eyes keep blinking but his hand is steady as it pounds against the bar.

“So let me get this straight, you two flirted the shit out of Oscar Wilde and Banana Yoshimoto’s name. Then boom, you're going on a _date_ next Saturday night?”

Mutsu tips the lacquerware flask and lets the warm drink fill her cup. She sips and leaves her colleague in suspense as his eyes bug out of their sockets and alcoholism saturates the air around him. He’s not drunk but nearly, and it’s enough to throw him off his prying game.

“Wilde is dead and Yoshimoto is taken.”

“Banana’s still alive?”

“Not all interesting authors are dead.”

“Whatever!” When other wan bar guests turn from their upsetting expressions reflected in their drinks and elect to glower at him, Gintoki pinpoints his tone into a safe whisper-hiss–he’s past the point of tipsy. He shakes his head faster than necessary and pours another drink; the bartender looks close to stopping him out of deep concern for everyone. “The point is, I can't believe you goaded the nerd outta’ Sakamoto instead of his headass side.”

She taps the table with a thoughtful finger and shrugs. If the other weekend is any indication of the nature of Tatsuma Sakamoto, it is that he had an emotive intelligence spanning a delicate optimism. It isn’t that he’s a complete clown (arguably), he’s…

_He’s something else._

But it doesn’t change that crass and goofy side of him that emerges when everyone least needs it. He met Onohara in a meeting the other day and right after he nailed the introduction, he started cracking up over Onohara’s “Japanese game show” tie. It certainly soured Onohara’s openness to her proposals with every retaliation in the form of rain checks on their final meeting to secure the Kaientai-Chidori partnership.

So instead of unburdening her garish heart as Gintoki did earlier in the night despite her many opinions and questions, she focuses on his work ethic. “Yes, but except when he's working on his own projects or the stuff he cares about. He’s showy but it’s because he’s excited about what he does.”

“Yeah, you've always been too much about work but you know what, Mutsu?” Sakata gurgles up a guffaw and the bartender swipes away his drink, cutting him off. But he doesn’t seem to care, even when Mutsu points it out. All he does is down his drink and smiles uncontrollably as he parses her carefully placed straight face. “You're perfect for that guy if you care to notice crap like that.”

“Question, how did we go from talking about your beautiful event planner sweetheart to insulting what's none of your business?”

It’s definitely the sake that’s warming her cheeks.

“Don't call her my sweetheart when all I've gotten to do is hook up!” Another warning from the bartender and more glares from the other guests. Mutsu uncontrollably smirks as she empties her cup and opens up her wallet. Sakata’s face falls as he comprehends the weight to his words. “Oh shit. Please don't tell Kagura.”

She stands up, thanks the bartender, thinks about the next train to her neighborhood as she gives Sakata a friendly wave goodbye.

“No promises.” 

* * *

In the morning that Monday, Fumiko intercepted her in the elevator as she chirps about the latest updates on her mending relationship with Eren. She doesn't believe in it lasting, but after another round of begging and embarrassing innuendos, Mutsu caves in and agrees to have lunch with her to catch up on whatever she couldn't hyperspeed in an elevator ride.

On her break, she ignores a pointed look from Onohara. He narrows his eyes in askance as she exits her office, announcing her break on the standard hour. Even Fumiko shoots her a puzzled, wordless question: _what did you even do this time?_

She holds in her sigh when he locks his gaze with her and approaches her in wide strides. He folds his arms and she mirrors him, back straightened.

“You’re not working over lunch?”

“Why, so you can call my work your own?”

“You usually go over your work on break.”

“Why won't you let me catch a break when I'm more than caught up on our projects and partnership papers?”

“I'm not disallowing you from anything, I'm asking a question.”

“Please don't overstep our professional relationship by asking me a personal question.”

Fumiko and the rest of the office quiets in the slightest. Onohara gives the room a precursory read and clears his throat. One of them is close to losing face.

And it’s not Mutsu.  

For a prolonged breath, the office eyes them from around and above their cubicles or through their office windows in the least furtive way possible. Face still tight, Onohara tsks.

“Watch yourself, Kaien.”

Three words erases the attention on them. When he turns on his heel, she takes her opportunity to rolls her eyes. Fumiko mouths what Mutsu imagines are curse words--Onohara isn't many people’s favorites--then hand signals herself eating from an upturned palm.

Mutsu takes her up on her offer with a thumbs up.

Thankfully, Fumiko kept the gossip and latest complaints about Eren to a few sentences and text message screenshot viewings. In an instant, once Fumiko twirled a lock of hair around her finger, she switched up the topics to what heated/killed Mutsu’s mood the fastest: Onohara and today’s incident.

“What if he’s weirdly attracted to you?”

“No. Do not,” she gags without bothering to hide it. She unthinkingly crumples her napkin up onto her salad plate as she finishes cleaning her space on the table. “This isn't some hate-love office rom-com, this is Onohara The Chairman of The Communist Party.”

“He's just our department head,” Fumiko says, biting back a laugh in between sips of the vestiges of her smoothie. Mutsu can’t help herself when she rolls her eyes so far into the back of her head–was it not obvious how vexing Onohara was to everyone?

“His agenda to cheapen out on the bathroom tampons is chauvinistic, communist quality if I ever saw it,” she stops before she can throw another verbal pitchfork at Onohara’s sullied name, despite the grueling memories over his vendetta to ‘save their office the money’ through sly tactics.

“I'm sorry,” she says at Fumiko’s inquiring gaze. There’s no need to dreg up past events, no matter its veracity and the rapport it built defending her loath for Onohara.

Fumiko shakes her head. “Don’t be, he’s actually scum. Besides, I’ve been the one talking all this time anyway. It’s fair to let you speak if for the past three years you’ve listened to me talk about the same man who cheats on me.” Mutsu can’t even keep her straight faced professionalism in tact at that. The auburn woman giggles. “Oh come on! I’m a ditz, but I practice self-awareness!”  

Mutsu stares at Fumiko like she’s the child of Cerebus, donning several heads impossible to human logic. Fumiko being self-aware? The thought of that alone would sooner destroy the entire solar system. Fumiko prods Mutsu to continue to rant again with a nudge of her cold plastic cup against Mutsu’s arm and Mutsu shrugs, her tense shoulders weighing a little less as they loosen.

“He's just...been a pain with our partnership when he was the one who wanted it in the first place. And I want this to work out so bad, we’ve been tripping up in profits and branching out with a reputably small but efficient company would do all of us well.” Mutsu looks out onto the window as she collects the last of her thoughts. “I just wish he would ease up.”

“He’s always been like that with you. I don’t know why it’s bothering you now.”

“Fumiko, this time, _I_ led this project, it’s not just–”

Her phone, facing the ceiling, lights up on cue.

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 12:40PM: omgomgomg so i think i’m eating the best gyoza on the planet and it’s not too expensive omg mutsu you gotta try this_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai), 12:40PM: do u think you’ll get out of work on the dot so we can fine dine??_

 “Oh, I see,” Fumiko drags out her humming. Mutsu averts his eyes. She only mentioned Tatsuma once, by chance, on a water break discussing the partnership and their intriguing, unique first impressions.

“He’s only part of it.”

“No need to get defensive on me, Kaien. Look, this project is your baby turtle. That…” she leans over the table to read the name from the screen and Mutsu swipes it off the table, “Sakamoto guy and your relationship is in a baby stage for your other turtle. I get it. Onohara is the predator that gobbles up your baby turtles before they can make it to the ocean.”

Mutsu barely understands the analogy, but at the same time, she gets that Fumiko was beginning to understand her. Her lips quirk up. A small reassurance in a sea of hopelessness.

They continue to talk for as long as their lunch break permitted, and about a minute before Mutsu makes it to the elevator, Sakata blows up her phone with text messages to speed up her lunch in thirty seconds.

Onohara steps on a stool and picks the clock off the wall, a lanky finger tapping the glass on the lengthier of the hands placed barely away from the 1. It is then that Mutsu knows that she won’t be getting that gyoza Tatsuma gushed about at all tonight.

* * *

She finishes up the website report and analysis, adding the final line on the projected demographic and their company’s suggested response to the transitional period they were undergoing as new clients are attracted from the buzz surrounding their deal with the Kaientai. Around her, the desks are empty, including the seat beside her where Fumiko occupied ten minutes ago until her beloved called her.

“Crap,” she muttered when she hung up on him,  “I forgot to tell Eren I was working overtime tonight. I can already feel it falling apart all over again once I come home.”

“Say no more,” Mutsu said, merciful. “This was all because of Onohara’s vendetta against girls having fun on their break. Go make it up to him.”

“For serious, Kaien?”

She nodded.

And that is the story how Fumiko gave Mutsu a million air kisses and sprinted out of the building. Once her keyboard went cold and her eyes scanned the document a final time, she hit print and shouldered on her pocketbook.

Her phone also lights up as she picks it up. Excellent timing as per usual.

 

> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai) , 6:30PM: are u still at the marketing office?_

Unexpected but she reserves no complaints. She continues on her journey to the printer, dim lighting as her pathway as she types back:

 

> _Mutsu Kaien , 6:31PM: I am... why?_
> 
> _Sakamoto Tatsuma (Kaientai) , 6:32PM: bc behold, i brought dinner lol_

 “What?” she questions nobody in particular and on instinct, her body turns 180 degrees from her blind spot. Before she can look away, the elevator doors open, light spilling out and revealing Tatsuma carrying two plastic bags heavy with takeout.

“No way,” she says, using her phone as a pointer. She kind of laughs but represses most of it, leaving behind a curved grin as a remnant. When he hands her one of the bags, she inquires. “How much is it?”

“Yes way and don't worry about it.”

“Well I am,” she argues back, reaching for her wallet in her bag.

Shaking his head, Tatsuma gently pushes her hand away from its quest, overriding her plans. He puts his touch away when she relinquishes her stance, smiling lightly. He clears his throat.  “It was discounted at the depachika (1), that's why you shouldn't worry about it.”

“Here I thought you were the type of man to splurge.”

“I am a cheap, cheap man, Mutsu, with a stomach for food a step up from convenience store bento.”

There’s a long pause as they examine the other, expecting a shift in consignment or retaliation, but there’s none. Finally, Mutsu says, “I owe you one then.”

She glances back at her paper out of habit, and instead of finding retreat from looking at Tatsuma for too long, she sighs wearily, throwing her fresh print outs on the nearest desk. “And on top of everything, I just realized I forgot to look into the weaknesses in our current digital marketing.”

Tatsuma actually looks sympathetic. “I can stay if you need.”

“No, we both have to prepare for tomorrow as best we can,” Mutsu finds the nearest pen and scribbles in the error in the margins. “This is going to take another half hour. I’m going to kill you if your pitch is weak tomorrow.”

“But you look tired.”

“As is everyone who works a job they could potentially love if it wasn’t for people who make the job harder. Not you, obviously.” When he looks at her hesitantly again, she shoos him to the elevator. “I understand, but I got it. I really appreciate the food and the offer, but I'll see you tomorrow morning,” after a moment of thinking she adds, “and the gallery on Friday.”

He laughs weakly as he concedes, walking into the elevator and pushing the button.

“I won’t let you down then.”

She believes him.

* * *

The meeting Wednesday is especially memorable. It's burned into her eyes and throat as the anger overwhelms and throbs in every pulse that beats in each passing second that denotes she’s been done a grievous wrong.

Firstly, Gintoki comes in hungover. He’s still capable of completing his sentences without slurring, but the sunglasses resting on his face clearly did nothing to help with the presentation, and she makes sure he knows she’s pissed when she digs her heels into his foot under the table. Tatsuma does a stellar job of presenting the information and necessary paperwork, playful and clean in speech and presentation. She couldn’t have asked for a better meeting.

That is, until, Onohara cuts her off during her portion, reads her report as if he worked on it himself, and starts giving credit to everyone but herself.

“Excuse me, but–”

She’s cut off. The meeting is adjourned. She forgets about Gintoki when he worms his way out of his seat and she’s left staring a burning hole in the wall across from her, too aware of Onohara’s smug presence at the front of the conference table, leaning back in his chair. Mutsu rubs her temples.

_Fucking hell…_

Tatsuma, momentarily, seizes her energy and mind when he slips into the chair Gintoki previously occupied, nudging her with his folder. He asks if he wants to back her up on what he guesses is her wrath–he’s right–but she declines. She stands up. She opens the door for him.

“No, please. Go ahead. Go eat lunch for me.”

He’s still skeptical but nods, ducking out of the conference room, leaving her with her breathing exercises and mind clogged up with oh so many emotions. Mutsu rises to her feet and makes her way to the head of the room.

Mutsu waits not for his permission to speak. “I worked hard to make this partnership happen ever since it was in the works, flew out to the province, and made valuable connections necessary to help the Chidori group,” she articulates slowly and professionally. It’s too early and disrespectful to flip her lid now. First, make him see reason–how _absurd_ he’s being should be a start. “And you’re telling everybody that it was all you.”

His eyes are like a watchful vulture, preparing his own rebuttal for his inhumanity and disrespect. All he says is, “I didn’t think you were one to care for credit.”

“I care when you pile the glory all on yourself and acknowledge your secretary for her single e-mail over my efforts.”

“I make no apologies, Kaien.”

She looks away, exhales, and faces him again. “I’m not asking for any apologies, I’m asking for amends. I’m asking for what I deserved back there, not for an admission to your manipulation.”

Onohara gets on the same wavelength as her quickly, standing up to match her height.  “Right-o, Diamond Princess, your dad’s name might have boosted you to your pretty salary and job with me, but it won’t give you what you don’t deserve.”

The old nickname, the nickname the press tossed around in their articles and television reports about the girl caught up in the midst of her father’s mistakes and disappearance reopen an old wound. She glares intensely and without remorse, boss or not. He continues on with his venom, his carcass picking as he folds his arms. “Bad publicity or not, you were the pity of everyone, perhaps even the likes of the Kaientai men. A woman of your position doesn’t just secure good deals out of nowhere.”

That tone, his implications, how _dare_ he...

“Get serious, Onohara, you know damn well I would be the head of this department if my bad publicity was anything to go by. I am the better businesswoman if I’m not stooping as low as making baseless accusations.”

When he smirks faintly and clicks his tongue, he gestures to the door Tatsuma disappeared from minutes ago.

“So Sakamoto Tatsuma means nothing to you, personally.”

“In the _relevant_ , professional capacity, Tatsuma is a smart and useful partner to work with. Anything else beyond that, if relevant, is HR’s concern,” she’s glad she can retort as quickly as she can; any more suspicions would not make her case any stronger.

“Oh, but it is concerning your credibility with this project,” he says it like he’s savoring another kill to her pride, to her career. “Unless you want everyone to think that it’s because you ‘pulled some strings’–”

“Even you know I am beyond–”

“–then I suggest you ‘get serious’ about work first before playing around.”

She knows what exactly he’s implying about her and because of it, and more, she wouldn’t mind if aliens were real and a random spaceship demolished his apartment. Maybe hit his head, give him a concussion. That’d be fine, too.

“I despise you. You’ll ruin my career here because you can’t believe I pulled it off,” she slams her palm on the table, uncaring that someone’s head pops in on the conference room door window and ducks out as quickly as it peers in. “ But I did it. I pulled this off.”

There’s a pregnant, tensing, pause as Onohara assesses her face, her posture, her body language. She hates every second of it. Finally, he says, retrieving his folder from the desk and starting towards the exit, “and who will administration believe?”

* * *

He tells her to take the day off as she storms out. It didn’t matter; anything he says was moot. She stomps out of the conference room, ignoring Fumiko and Gintoki’s questions, and gathers her things without saying a word.

She tells them that she doesn’t want to talk except that she needs coffee and space and just like that, she’s out of the building. Mutsu wanders into the nearest cafe, gets on the line to order the quickest lunch possible before she heads out to find her apartment and throw herself on her bed.

She doesn’t want to cry, but dammit, tears were stinging and filling quickly in her tear ducts. She’s angry, not sad, but life had a funny way of turning everything around on her in ways she never suspected.

The phone in her pocket vibrates and she takes a breath to ground herself that yes, throwing away a smartphone would be irrational and expensive to replace. When she sees the caller ID, she answers it, clearing her throat to realign her emotions again.

But what she’s about to say in this conversation may never realign her heart again if it goes well. According to plan. A plan so detrimental to her personal life but it’s for her job. For her career. For respect.

“Tatsuma, hey. Sorry we didn’t get to talk beforehand or after the meeting. Thanks again for the gyoza the other night.” She steps up to the cash register and muffles the mic on her phone. “Mutsu, a black coffee and that sandwich over there please. Thanks.”

‘No problem! Wasn’t it amazing?’ His voice softens over the line as he inquires, ‘Are you on break now?’

“Yeah, I was surprised. And yeah, I’m out. Excuse me, that’s mine,” she forgets to cover the phone, but she doesn’t care as she receives her wrapped sandwich and drink. Walking to a lone corner of the cafe, she swallows as she feels weighed down by her own ideas. It’s a familiar ache, letting go of something you wish could stay.  “Listen, about Friday…”

‘That excited, are you, Mutsu? I promise it’ll be great, haha.’

“No, I wish. I can’t go anymore. Work’s just killing me, Onohara’s on my ass, and–listen, Tatsuma, I’m really sorry.”

‘What do you mean?’ Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound very hurt. Not even confused. Simply curious, concerned. _Please don’t be._

“I’m just sorry. It’s too much. You’re great, but I have to prioritize other tasks on Friday and for as long as we work together,” she takes in a long breath that lasts too short but too much for her lungs to take. “It’s what’s for the best.”

'Tell me, is _Tokyo Roast’s_ coffee the best too?'

Her breath leaves as her eyes jump into hyperactivity. “Don’t tell me…”

“Who knew you’d cancel on me over the very thing that bonded us at the airport once upon a december,” He’s lax and laughs at his own cartoon reference. Gesturing to her styrofoam cup, he asks, “Can I sip this?”

“Anastasia, really? And go for it,” she feels her smile is forced, much too watery as she tries to pull herself together. He drinks a little from her cup and hands it back to her. “How’d you even know where I was? Aren’t you supposed to be getting lunch?”

“Heard you talking to the barista and Google mapped your nearest coffee shop. Figured you had something to get off your chest…” She’s about to protest when he holds up a hand. She sighs, giving way to whatever he has to say. He has the right after all. After giving his words careful consideration, his eyes find hers in her daze.

“My office gave me the rest of the day, but I’ll just give it to you. You don’t have to give me a thing; just let me be here wherever you’re going,” he ruffles his hair but his voice leaves no room for argument. “That sound like a fair enough deal?”

Her hands tighten around her coffee cup. Her chest does the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) depachika - The foodmarket area in Japanese department store basements. Apparently, they discount food towards closing time.


End file.
